LARA OF JASOOM, PART III - VALLEY OF THE MOON
by Thuria
Summary: Lara and Carthan travel to Earth with the Rift migrants where they rescue the survivors of the colony in Ireland. Afoot in the North American wilderness, they experience many adventures while struggling to reach the safety of a remote mountain valley.
1. Chapter 1

LARA OF JASOOM – Part III

Valley of the Moon

CHAPTER 1

"I feel as if I'm carrying a calot on my back," Carthan growled, as we made our careful way along a muddy, slippery cattle track.

We were dressed as peasants, Carthan in rough leggings, homespun shirt and a leather jerkin; I wearing an itchy blouse, a heavy cloak, and an annoying voluminous skirt which impeded my progress. "Progress" in fact, was made far more difficult by Earth's gravity. Before we had walked a hundred yards from our ship, I knew it would be some time before we adapted. Though I had retained much of my muscle tone in the three years I had been on Mars, it would be much more difficult for Carthan. The ship's artificial gravity had provided half a G, but he was nonetheless more than half his weight heavier on Earth.

We had landed in southern Ireland near the coordinates of the landing site of the first Rift ship, settling in a clearing in the rain forest just over a ridge from a cultivated valley. We had waited in the ship until well after sunrise. Cautioning our fifty migrants to remain out of sight, and warning that we might be gone a few days, Carthan and I set out to reconnoiter.

The track led diagonally down a lightly wooded hillside and we caught glimpses through the trees of a slow-moving river which flowed in great serpentine loops across the valley floor. I guessed, from the state of the lush vegetation that the season was spring. Everything was green – that extraordinary Irish green that seems to glow even on a dull day. Wisps of fog drifted above the river, the legacy of a recent downpour.

Half a mile ahead, one of the river's loops was nearly isolated from the rest of the river, with only a narrow neck of land preventing it from becoming a stagnant oxbow. On the near-island formed by the river, stood a huge ringfort. In my travels in Ireland I had seen remnants of these circular fortifications constructed of earthworks or stone. Most were only large enough to contain a farmhouse and a small pasture for a few precious cattle. However, this fort was several acres in extent, with walls 10 or 12 feet high, the river a most effective moat. Within, stood a large three-storey stone-and-timber structure that one could, with imagination, call a castle. Attached to it was a still-higher tower commanding a broad view of the valley.

The flat land on both sides of the river was chequered with irregular small holdings delineated by low fieldstone walls, each enclosing one or two primitive log or mud beehive huts. We had to cross a shaky log bridge to reach a tiny hamlet comprising what appeared to be a hostelry, a shop or two, and a few houses surrounding a minuscule market square outside the main gate of the fort. In all, the valley's population could not have amounted to more than a few hundred souls.

Our intention was to walk through the village as if we were bound elsewhere, listening to the language and hoping to hear the Barsoomian tongue. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all we could think of.

None of the dozen or so men lounging or involved in discussion in front of the hostelry resembled Barsoomians. As we passed, one of them greeted us in archaic Celtic. It bore only a remote resemblance to the Gaelic I had learned from my mother as a girl.

Carthan purposely replied, "Kaor!" with an accompanying wave of his hand.

Two men within our vision reacted: one was a beggar wearing a hood, perched on his haunches nearby, who jerked but did not look up; the other man, who stood leaning against the wall of a nearby building, started violently, his pipe nearly falling from his mouth. He stared at us intently, taking in my fair skin and red hair (mostly hidden under a scarf), and then Carthan's unusual height and ruddy complexion. The man – who was not Barsoomian – glanced around and when he saw that no one appeared to be looking in his direction, gave a single jerk of his head to indicate we should continue in the direction we were walking. With no other option, we did so.

He caught up with us at the edge of town, held his finger to his lips, and led us to a sturdy stone beehive hut. He ushered us inside without a word – and then swiftly closed and barred the door upon us as we entered.

"Idiot!" Carthan chided himself as he lurched clumsily back to the door, first rattling the latch and then pounding futilely upon its inch thick oak boards.

"Like chickens to the slaughter," I said in English, stifling laughter. "We've lost our touch, love."

He snorted sardonically, "Blame the gravity. My brain feels smothered on this planet of yours, Lara."

We checked the lone window, which was barred with solid oak. We had come unarmed, without even knives to cut or pry the bars. I at least should have known better. There was no way out.

We sat huddled together on the dirt floor all night, chilled, uncomfortable, and dozing fitfully. Though concerned, we were determined to remain patient and await events. Sooner or later we would have to be fed or released. However our worry deepened as the sun rose and the morning wore on with no sign of succor.

I tried to recall the history of the Irish people, wondering about their religious leanings – pagan or Christian? The only date that came to mind was 461 – the year of Saint Patrick's death. I was certain we were later than that, in which case the whole of the island would have been converted and we might be met with Christian tolerance. It was simple enough to convert Martian years to Earth years, but I did not know exactly how far back in time the portal had taken us. It could have been any date between 600 and 800 A.D.

Across the Irish Sea, Britain had shaken off Rome's bonds as that mighty empire disintegrated. To the north the Vikings were on the move, rampaging along the coasts of the British isles. The island of Ireland, tiny as it is, was divided in this era into dozens of petty principalities, each with its own king or prince. Much of the history of Ireland in this time had been lost – I could only speculate about what we would experience if – when! – we were released.

I did not share my misgivings with Carthan. There were too many imponderables.

Carthan had dozed off, exhausted by his battle with gravity, and I was sitting in a stupor aching in every joint. As the noon-day shadows of our window bars crept across the floor, the door was flung open.

The same man who had imprisoned us stood silhouetted in the doorway. Squat, dark-haired and coarse featured, he wore a thick leather vest over a loose homespun shirt. He held an iron broadsword in his fist. He barked an order and stepped back outside to stand beside the door, sword raised. We didn't need to understand Celtic to comprehend his meaning, and with as much alacrity as we could muster with sore and stiffened limbs, shuffled outside.

He marched us toward the causeway and, once across, he ushered us through a stout oak gate in the encircling castle wall leading to a courtyard. The building's main door was open and appeared to be unguarded. We were urged forward into the central hall, a huge room dominated by a monumental stone fireplace where two huge wolfhounds lay, placidly enduring the depredations of several very young and active pups. Within the fireplace, banked red-hot embers from a wood fire sent forth tendrils of blue smoke which drifted toward the ceiling, eventually exiting through gaps in the blackened rafters. On a spit, turned by a sturdy youth, was an entire boar, its mouth-watering aroma mitigating the stench of the smoky atmosphere.

Coughing and eyes tearing, we were directed to a smaller room to one side of the entrance. As I entered, I turned back to see the guard push Carthan through the door. His resources depleted, my prince could not keep his feet under him. He fell hard on his knees and slumped to the floor while the man slammed the door behind us. I heard a heavy bar slide into place.

Carthan lay unmoving and I rushed to kneel beside him. "Carthan?" I whispered, laying my hand on his cheek. He heaved himself onto his back, propping his head on my lap. His attempt to make an encouraging smile resulted in a pained grimace.

"I am not hurt," he said, "though my head feels as if it will fall from my body. I do need rest."

I looked around at what appeared to be a storage room, where in one corner lay remnants of old clothing. Gently lowering Carthan's head to the floor, I picked up a handful of the rags to provide him with a pillow. Judging the time at just past noon, I lay beside him, deciding a nap would do no harm. We were both asleep in moments.

I woke an hour or two later, much restored. Carthan was still deeply asleep and I, curious, wandered about the room, which held a motley assortment of discarded household supplies, farm implements, and crockery, most of which were broken or otherwise unusable. There were no weapons of any kind. However, behind a pile of malodorous blankets, I found a treasure.

A lyre.

I lifted it out into the open to inspect it more closely – and experienced an odd and illogical thrill of recognition, yet I could not have seen it before. Carved from oak, it was a typical Anglo-Saxon lyre, being a long rectangle with a shallow soundboard and a square hole cut out of one half. There were six gut strings stretched from a tailpiece at one end to tuning pegs at the other. Clearly a well-used instrument, it showed the effects of long neglect, being black with soot and covered in dust. Otherwise it was intact, though sadly out of tune.

Sitting on the earthen floor and completely absorbed, I cleaned it as best I could and then attempted to tune it with the first six notes of the scale. The instrument responded with sweet, musical pings as I worked on each string. I strummed two or three simple chords, while humming a simple melody, and grinned in delight. The old gut strings were incapable of maintaining their pitch, but for me it was near enough. Inspired by my location in the land of my ancestors, I softly sang the melancholy words to an old, old song, while my unruly Irish hair tumbled over the strings.

The harp that once through Tara's halls  
The soul of music shed,  
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,  
As if that soul were fled . . .  
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,  
The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart, indignant, breaks,  
To show that still she lives.

"What do the words mean, Lara?" Carthan asked when I had finished.

I looked up guiltily, having quite forgotten my surroundings. He was propped up on one elbow, watching.

"I'm sorry, love," I said. "I didn't mean to wake you. How do you feel?"

"Much refreshed. I did not know you played an instrument."

I sniffed. "I'm not much of a musician. My mother tried to teach me the harp as a child. I had little inclination but did learn a few songs."

"The music is soothing – though somehow sad."

"It is indeed. The song tells about a time when the harp – a more sophisticated instrument than this one – was banned in Ireland as a tool for rebellion against the rule of foreigners." I translated the words and added. "It was prohibited for so long that only a dozen harpists remained when the ban was lifted a hundred years later and most of the traditional songs had been lost . . ."

I started when the door opened abruptly and a woman walked in. She was no taller than five feet, middle-aged, with a substantial body, dark greying hair and brown eyes. She wore an ankle-length monk's-robe style dress drawn in around her waist with a thin cord. When she saw me holding the lyre, she stopped short and said something sharply. I shook my head, dredging up what I could remember of Gaelic. "Nί thuigim – I do not understand."

She stared down at me narrowly but the words clearly meant nothing to her. However, she was quick. She came across the room, keeping a wary eye on Carthan, pointed at me, touched the lyre, and moved her hand above the strings. She wanted me to play.

Again I sang "The Harp that Once". The woman seemed fascinated, and urged me to sing another. By this time I noticed she had left the door ajar and that we had an audience. Perhaps a dozen people crowded around the opening, craning to hear and murmuring in wonder.

I gave her a long look and slowly shook my head. I pointed at my mouth and pantomimed drinking. We'd had neither food nor drink since leaving the ship yesterday.

She had the grace to look shocked, and then stalked angrily toward the door shouting for someone. When the young man working the spit materialized before her, she gave him an exasperated dressing down. Shamefaced, he responded by turning abruptly and running toward the fireplace. I could see him through the open door as he sliced off several chunks of boar meat with a huge knife, placed them on a heavy clay platter and brought it back to her. The woman took the plate, scolded him again with a shooing motion of her other hand, and while he scuttled off she brought the plate to me.

"Go raibh maith agat," I said in gratitude. She eyed me blankly, and then turned toward the doorway where she scattered the onlookers with a sharp command. The young man came back with two jugs of something (ale!) which he placed on the floor in front of me and then fled. The woman closed the door, leaving us to eat in peace.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

When we had consumed every morsel of our one-course meal and washed it down with the rather sour, but very welcome ale, it occurred to me that my ability to play the lyre – however minimal – might help us in some way. I picked up the instrument again and practiced a few more simple folk tunes. Not all of them were Irish – some in fact were English or Welsh – but I expected it wouldn't matter because all had been (would be!) composed more than a thousand years hence.

It was nearly dark when the woman returned and beckoned us impatiently to follow her. I left the lyre behind but she picked it up, tucking it under her arm before leading us out into the main hall. She bade us stand before a huge carved chair – perhaps "throne" might be more descriptive – on which a strapping middle-aged man sat gnawing on one of the boar's leg bones. She waved a hand at him, looked at us, and said, "Conleth".

Conleth had a grizzled beard, pepper-and-salt hair, and intelligent blue eyes which regarded us with curiosity. I assumed he was ruler of this tiny kingdom. He asked us a question, to which the woman – whose familiarity with him made me certain she was his wife – seemed perplexed to answer. Turning toward us, she placed her hand on her chest, saying "Nola". Carthan promptly gave his name, as did I. She then showed the lyre to Conleth, adding a few words and jerking her chin at me.

His eyebrows rose in surprise, and then he nodded slowly, gesturing that I should play.

And so I sat cross-legged on the woven-reed floor at his feet and played and sang the songs I'd practiced. When I was done I looked up at Conleth. Unabashed tears were streaming down his face, and I wondered who in his life had once played this instrument to evoke such emotion..

The room was now crowded with perhaps 20 people, all mesmerized as if they had never before heard music. It was remarkable to witness the effect those few simple tunes had on them.

Looking around at the mixture of adults, children and elders, I was suddenly riveted by one woman standing alone against a wall.. She was Barsoomian! There was no mistaking that warm milk-chocolate skin, white hair (mostly covered by a head scarf), and the same cast of racial features to which I had become so accustomed in the last year in the Rift. She shrank back as she saw my startled look, and I realized she could not possibly recognize either Carthan or me as Barsoomians. As I could do little else at that moment, I held her eyes and said, "Kaor". Though the word seemed lost in the general babble, she heard it. Her hand swiftly covered her mouth as her eyes widened.

I had to turn away then to indicate to Nola that my repertoire was spent. She shrugged, and urged me to play everything again. By the time I was done, the Rift woman had disappeared.

We were again confined to the storage room that night. We made ourselves comfortable with several of the less objectionable blankets and, completely spent, slept through from dusk to dawn. Soon after sunrise the young man who tended the spit, yawning and sleepy-eyed and accompanied by an armed guard, brought us more boar meat, together with coarse bread and water. Fortunately the room contained a crude privy built into the castle wall.

"Now what?" asked Carthan, reclining on the blankets to save energy. We were both much restored after our solid sleep and substantial breakfast.

I said, "I don't know enough about this era to speculate but – Carthan, I saw a Rift woman last night while I was playing. Perhaps she can help us."

He sat erect. "You did!"

"You were sitting with your back to her. Of course she would not have recognized either of us as Barsoomian, but I managed to say "Kaor" – which she heard and reacted to. Then I had to sing once more. When I looked for her again she was gone."

"Then," he said, "we'll have to find some way to communicate with her – if the circumstances arise."

"I've been thinking about that. Do you know any simple songs? In all the time I was on Barsoom, I never heard any music."

He grinned. "Not surprising, considering we seem to have spent much of our time together in caves."

I laughed. "You noticed!"

"Still," he continued thoughtfully, "newly hatched Barsoomian youth are taught songs to aid in their education. Let's see if I can recall one . . ."

After a moment or two of recollection, he began to sing in a surprisingly fine tenor:

"You men of Ptarth, with knife and sword,

Defeat the foe for land and lord.

Your skies protect, your walls defend

We will not fear, we will not bend."

Of course, it had to be a battle hymn! I tried to repress a laugh, but Carthan noticed.

He feigned a hurt look. "You don't like it?"

"Oh, no! Yes! I do like it. But perhaps we should change the words a little?"

"Hmf," he said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the mischief in his eyes. "What's wrong with the words?"

"They're perfectly fine, of course. But on the other hand we need to get a message across, not frighten the woman to death."

Grinning, Carthan settled in to compose gentler, more relevant lyrics, while I learned the simple tune and its accompanying chords on the lyre.

I sang again that evening when Nola fetched us after supper. The room held even more people than on the previous night, but there was no sign of the Rift woman. I had added a few more songs to my performance, as well as one in Gaelic that I had learned at my mother's knee. It seemed just as incomprehensible to our audience as the English-language ones.

Rather than repeat my entire repertoire, I sang each song twice through, hoping to give the woman more time to appear. And finally she did. When I spotted her in a far corner, I immediately sang the hilariously prosaic words Carthan had composed for his martial air.

From Rift we come, our people wait

Aboard our ship in yonder glade.

We cannot stay, the time grows short

We ask your aid to leave this fort.

When she heard the familiar words of her native tongue, her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened in shock. She fled from the room as if pursued by demons.

Late that night we were awakened by the metallic rasp of the bar sliding from its jam on the frame of our door.

"She wasted no time," Carthan whispered.

"Poor brave soul," I whispered back. "It can't be easy to face us when we are imprisoned and don't look anything like her."

Only the faint light from the guttering fireplace showed a shadowy form standing uncertainly in the now-open door.

"We are awake," I said softly.

A quick in-drawn breath showed the woman was on the verge of flight.

"Do not fear, we will not harm you. We want to help." Carthan's male voice seemed to calm her. She eased into the room, softly closing the door behind her and leaving us all in nearly complete darkness.

"Who are you?" she asked in Barsoomian.

Carthan explained that we were leaders of a colony ship from the Rift and that our mission was, first, to find the previous colony and, second, to rescue them if needed.

"Rescue?" she repeated. "It is too late." Her voice held a note of hopelessness. "Some of our people are dead; the rest of us enslaved."

"What happened?" I asked quietly.

"When we tried to build a settlement in the next valley, we were constantly threatened and hunted down, our houses burned. Most of us were taken as slaves. We had no defensive skills and were debilitated by the gravity and unaccustomed humidity. Nearly all of us became ill with respiratory diseases in this damp air. Some died, but most recovered slowly."

She added, "My name is Ryanna. You are not of the Rift."

"No. I am Lara, and this is my mate Carthan. We reached Rift City through one of the time portals while on an exploration trip 600 Barsoom years in the future. We had every intention of returning to our own time, but the director of your university persuaded us to remain when he discovered we were adept with weapons. We taught defensive skills to the next group of migrants, and they in turn asked us to lead their expedition to Jasoom. So – here we are."

Ryanna said bitterly, "Tell the migrants to go home again. This is no place for them."

"Why?" Carthan asked.

"Because we are different. Because we are hated and feared. But that is not the worst." She paused, clearly fighting tears, and said in a hard voice, "They destroyed our eggs."

I closed my eyes, as if to shut out the grief and horror on the face I couldn't see. Martians are oviparous. Destruction of the eggs meant the children that would-have-been were dead. I turned, putting my hand on my husband's arm. "Carthan . . . "

"I know," he said. "We cannot leave them here. But for now we are as weak and helpless as they were when they arrived. None of us is fit to fight – or even to run."

The three of us were silent for a long moment, stymied for a solution.

Ryanna sighed in resignation. "Then we must wait until you are stronger. It will take a few weeks."

Carthan asked, "How difficult will it be to find all of you?"

"Perhaps thirty of us are still in the valley, either as slaves here in the castle or labouring on surrounding farms. Only a few have been taken elsewhere. I can begin to spread the news among us to prepare to leave when you are ready."

"Could you somehow get word to our ship? We told them we would not be gone for long, and would not wish them to come looking for us."

She hesitated. "It will be difficult – I am not allowed to leave the fort. But there is one among us who is still free. My brother is a beggar in the village and so far has been undetected. If I can get word to him I will ask him to try."

Carthan and I looked at each other, recalling how the beggar had reacted when he heard Carthan's "Kaor".

With no other recourse, we agreed to wait until Ryanna found a means to contact her brother. After that Carthan and I would have to decide whether or not to trust them with the location of our ship. We had no idea how long our migrants would wait before setting out to find us. Perversely, we hoped they would be too debilitated for an immediate attempt at our rescue.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Security was lax for the castle – I believe we could have walked out of the fort at any time once past our door. That, however, seemed pointless. Though imprisoned, we were warm, had food and shelter, and the possibility of rescue. Outside, our only destination would have to be the ship – which solved nothing, with nowhere to go until we rounded up the stranded colonists.

Our greatest enemy at the moment was inactivity and our inability to obtain sufficient exercise. I had to find a means to strengthen us both – quickly! We tried fencing with stout canes I found in the detritis of the room, but the space was too limited. I searched among the the miscellany of household discards and found an heavy iron kettle, much blackened, with a hole burned through its base. In itself, weighing about five pounds, it was sufficient for my needs. For Carthan, I stuffed the bottom with old clothing, and then filled it with about five pounds of broken pottery. Holding the handle, we were able to use the thing as a weight and found it amazingly versatile for whole-body workouts. After a few days, I began to feel normal again, and even Carthan, who at first scoffed at my makeshift strength-training method, found he tired less quickly with every day that passed.

Meantime my lyre performances continued nearly every evening. I dredged up a few more songs and when I was down to recalling only a verse or two, made up more. I wondered whimsically if any of my songs would be carried through time creating a kind of endless loop – begging the question: who was the composer?

These frivolous pastimes came to an abrupt end and our problems became moot in the early morning about ten days after our arrival, when we were wakened by the sounds of shouts and screams.

Both of us sprang to our feet instantly, peering through our tiny barred window. The sun had not yet risen, but it was light enough to see armed men jog-trotting along the shore of the river. Many men. Within minutes an entire army seemed to be charging across the causeway toward the castle, all shouting and brandishing weapons.

Then we heard the bar on our door slam aside with a crash. The door flew open and our hostess, Nola, rushed into the room. She was in a blind panic, a look of stark terror on her face. She ignored us completely, searching with frantic haste through the piles of discards. Whatever it was, she failed to find the object of her search, and with a moan that certainly meant "oh no!" she turned and fled, leaving the door open.

An opportunity? Or a death trap?

We approached the door with considerable caution and peered into the great-room. Family members and servants were behaving like so many terrified barn-fowl, running helter-skelter and apparently accomplishing nothing. Then Conleth stalked into the hall, evidently straight from his bed. Hair dishevelled, and rubbing sleep from his eyes, he roared for attention and then proceeded to give orders. His mere presence seemed to calm everyone.

A brief shouting match between Conleth and Nola over (I guessed) her inability to find what she'd been seeking, sent her flying up a flight of precarious log steps to a mezzanine from which she descended a moment later with an armful of broadswords. She dumped them into the middle of the floor, and ran back for more, while Conleth and several men and boys took up a stand in front of the main door.

Carthan and I exchanged a look. This, we could do.

As we ran to snatch up swords, the heavily bolted front door shuddered with the impact of a heavy object. Though the massive oak boards of the door held firm with each blow, the rusting bolts holding the iron hinges began to give way. With a half dozen strikes of the battering ram, the great door fell inward, followed by a howling mass of bearded, helmeted men, each armed with a round leather shield and a sword.

There was no escape for us. Apart from Carthan and me, only Conleth and a few of the men-servants seemed capable of fighting. The rest – women, children and elderly – were virtually helpless against the onslaught of those fierce, determined warriors. Even in our still-weakened state, Carthan and I fought as best we could, each wounding several opponents. In the end we were overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers.

I watched Carthan fall under a flat-bladed blow to his head, but before I could even react, I was grabbed from behind by an incredibly strong hairy arm around my waist. I struggled like a mad woman, but It soon became clear that a female resisting capture would not be tolerated. I was knocked out cold by a solid uppercut to my jaw.

CHAPTER 4

Vikings! They have to be Vikings, I thought muzzily through the red-hot pain in my chin, jarred by every step I took. The Vikings reached Ireland in the 8th Century. Of course there was no way to know who they were for certain, and it was irrelevant anyway. I was the prisoner of as tough and disciplined a group of men as I could ever have envisioned.

There were about fifty of them, and with very little resistance they had swept through the village and castle with the efficiency of long experience. Perhaps two hours after their arrival and having captured about 20 of us – mostly young men and women – the raiders began to march us south, herding us like cattle to slaughter. Two of the captives were Barsoomian. Knowing I would be fortunate merely to save myself, I mourned their loss, and then thought perversely that one of them might become my distant ancestor.

With so many youth among us, I wondered why they had taken me. My mature demeanor should have distinguished me, in their eyes, from the terrified teenagers they had captured. The guards with whom I came in contact treated me with extraordinary respect, probably still suffering the effects of the wounds and bruises I had inflicted during my capture. However in retrospect, recalling the way the men overtly eyed my fair skin and red hair, they may have had other uses for me: perhaps as an interesting addition to their gene pool.

In literature, Vikings have been depicted as tall and muscular – a rough, brutish race. Muscular they were, but none of the other adjectives applied. The tallest stood 3 or 4 inches under my 5 ft 10, and they were by no means dirty, all having neatly-trimmed beards, clean clothing (now a little the worse for wear), and well-cared-for weapons. Though strict with discipline, they were not unjustly cruel nor did they harm us in any way. In fact, they treated us as they would fine horses. Since slave trading was the chief enterprise among the Vikings for hundreds of years, I was convinced that we were about to be transported to the infamous slave market in Dublin.

At first I searched frantically for Carthan. Head and shoulders taller than our captors, he would have been easy to spot among the Irish captives, but there was no sign of him. It occurred to me that the raiders would not have bothered carrying anyone of his weight if he were unconscious. Either that, or he was dead – a thought I refused to consider further . . .

We were force-marched along the bank of the river with only one break for a brief rest and a drink from the stream. No food was given to us. I looked for other familiar faces but saw none. Thank the gods, I thought, that Ryanna is not among us. And neither, I decided, would I be there long. I intended to escape at the first opportunity.

I had not realized how close the village lay to the sea, and was astounded when, after only a few hours of steady walking, a breathtaking panorama of the ocean came into view. Two classic Viking longships, curved dragon prows towering toward the sky, lay at anchor in a tiny bay, their elegant hulls riding easily up and over the swells rolling in from the Atlantic. There seemed to be few on board, and it struck me that it was no wonder our captors were so muscular. They were the oarsmen for those ships.

Then I began to panic. The hillside leading down to the beach was devoid of trees, with only low shrubs offering any kind of concealment even if I could somehow free myself. I had to do something to escape, and soon! But my hands were tied before me with leather thongs, and all of us were bound together on a long rope held at each end by a guard, with perhaps 10 more guards on each side of the line. Clearly our captors were well prepared for escape attempts.

Two gigs, beautifully crafted miniatures of the longships, were pulled up on the rocky short,, rolling with the swells. One by one we were released from the rope and ordered into a boat. When the boat could hold no more,two of our captors bent to the oars, making a bee-line for the ships. My chances for escape were fading fast. Then at the last moment when I noticed how we were to access the longship, I saw an opportunity which just might work. . .

We had to pull ourselves up to the deck – a matter of ten feet – on a knotted rope. When it was my turn I grasped the rope, placed my bound hands against the ship's hull, and with my feet on the rail of the skiff pushed with all my strength. Newton's Third Law sprang into effect and the skiff duly moved away from the ship leaving a widening gap. I allowed my hands to "slip" off the rope and plummeted into the water with what I hoped was a convincing scream, snatching a quick breath just before my head went under. Clamping my teeth against the shockingly cold water, I allowed my body to sink with the weight of my saturated clothing, and then swam under the hull of the ship.

Hampered by my bonds I kicked hard under the keel until I reached the bow of the longship, where I raised my head to look around and realized I could not be seen from the shore or from the deck above me.

Could Vikings swim? It seemed likely. They were people of the sea, and the Atlantic would not be as uninvitingly frigid for recreational swimming in summer. The burning question – would a man wearing armour leap into icy water to retrieve one prisoner? That remained to be seen.

Darkness was still hours away. We were about half a mile from shore and if I struck out for the beach now I would certainly be detected. Somehow I must make them think I had drowned. But how?

The solution, of course, was obvious. I would have to remain in the water out of sight long enough to convince them I was dead. I might die anyway – I doubted I could survive submerged longer than half an hour before perishing from hypothermia.

And so I waited, clinging to the keel with my body doubled into a fetal position to preserve body heat. I counted to 600 as my extremities became numb. It was the longest ten minutes of my life.

Then, barely able to propel myself with stiffened limbs, I stroked back under the hull to the gig where I carefully raised my eyes above water. And just in time too. The boat was still there, now empty of prisoners, the oarsmen preparing to row to shore for another load. Slowly I submerged as far as I could, and came up under the gig. It was an appalling risk, but I could think of nothing else, and time was fast running out. I frog-kicked to the bow where, by floating on my back with my face just above the surface, I could hang on to the keel timbers and remain out of sight of the rowers. I hoped fervently that no one would investigate the unusual drag!

Clinging to the hull of the gig that day was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. Hands and feet numb and gasping desperately for air, it was all I could do to hang on while my body was repeatedly awash with chilling waves.

About a hundred feet from shore I let go, diving as deep as I could. Breast-stroking awkwardly underwater and surfacing between swells to breathe, I reached an outcropping of rocks a few hundred feet along the shore. Now out of sight of the gig, though still visible to anyone who might happen to be watching from the ship, I slowly dragged my numb body up onto the beach and crawled, bruising my hands and knees, into the midst of broken and tumbled boulders.

I turned my attention to the now-painful thong binding my wrists. Unable to loosen the knots with my teeth, I utilized my violent shaking to scrub the leather to shreds on a sharp rock.

Though the water had been numbingly cold, the soft spring air was warm. With no sign of pursuit, I inched farther up the beach into a narrow steep-sided gully. Forcing my way through a dense thicket of head-high bracken, I found a small clearing out of sight of the sea, stripped completely, and wringing water from my clothing draped it on the ferns to dry. Still shivering uncontrollably, I forced my protesting body into a strenuous session of double-time Taiji. By the time I was done, I was not just warm and dry, but utterly spent, and lay on a thick growth of ferns to rest under the welcome rays of the afternoon sun.

It was nearly dark when I came half-awake through a haze of fatigue. I had not slept long, and wondered what had wakened me. Then I was shocked motionless when I realized my body was responding to the siren caresses of a warm hand on my breast. Further study concluded that the hand belonged to a large individual who lay beside me. As I tensed, preparing to repel boarders, I heard a soft chuckle and a voice purring in my ear, "Do not slay me, love. I yield."

Our loving reunion was complicated somewhat by the painful lump on Carthan's head and by my aching jaw, but once beyond those difficulties, considerable delight ensued. Afterward, too weary to attempt the long walk back to the village, we wrapped ourselves in my now-dry "homespun" peasant skirt, lay on the much-abused bracken, and discussed the day's adventures in whispers. We fell asleep in each other's arms as the near-full moon soared into a starry sky.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The rays of the rising sun painted the early-morning clouds crimson – a sight Carthan had never seen. Mesmerized, he stood watching the spectacle while I, meantime, collected my scattered salt-encrusted garb.

"'Evening grey and morning red'", I muttered, donning the stiffened clothing. "It's going to pour, my dear. We had better be on our way."

"Pour?" he asked, puzzled. "What is to be poured?"

I gaped at him, and then it struck me that he had never experienced rain. "You'll see," I said, looking up at the lowering sky. "Quite soon now . . ."

A quick scan of the inlet revealed that the long ships had left, probably at first light. I experienced a brief pang of regret that I had not been able to save the young villagers.

There was no possibility of getting lost on our way back to our ship. The crushed vegetation of the forced march had left a clear trail which Carthan had followed after regaining consciousness.

He told me that in the chaos following the raid, he had simply walked away from the castle, and caught up to us within an hour. Staying well back, he trailed us until he sighted the beach and then took cover behind some boulders almost directly above the outcropping where I had come ashore. He had seen me "fall" into the water, and when I did not resurface, began to believe I had drowned. Despairing, and hope fading, he kept a vigil and his joy knew no bounds when he saw me drag myself from the sea. Unable to help for fear of exposing us both, he could only watch my painful progress up the beach. He remained on guard on the hill above me while I slept, all unknowing, as safe as a babe in a cradle.

We had trudged toward the village for some distance when the rain began in mid-morning. Noticing that Carthan was not with me, I stopped to look back. He stood with his hands outstretched to catch the first huge drops, a wondering expression on his face. Smiling, I walked back to him and tugged at his hand. "You'll grow tired of it soon enough, love, when you're soaked through."

By the time we slogged through the sodden mist-draped woods and reached the Rift ship, we were as wet as if we had just emerged from the sea. Chilled and dripping, we entered the hatch where we were greeted with such an outpouring of joy that it was clear our shipmates were convinced we had perished.

. . . . .

The entire ship's complement held a council of war the next day. Hours of discussion led to several conclusions. We could not stay in Ireland. We had to contact the Barsoomians who had preceded us and invite them to join us. And somewhere we would have to find a safe refuge for those who still wished to settle on Earth.

As the logical choice, I volunteered to go down to the village to contact Ryanna's brother. The villagers showed no curiosity when I walked among them: I was not the only redhead around, and fortunately for me they had their own problems. The beggar was squatting in the same place we had first seen him and I crouched in front of him. His face was hidden by his cowl, but I knew his eyes were upon me.

"Kaor," I said in Barsoomian softly, not wishing to be overheard. "We need your help."

His reaction nearly overbalanced him. He visibly gathered his wits and gasped, "Who are you?" It appeared from his reaction that Ryanna had not been able to contact him.

"This is not the place for explanations," I murmured. "Please meet me across the river at the edge of the forest. I will watch for you." At that I turned and walked away.

I waited a long time and had nearly convinced myself that he would not come at all when I spotted him crossing the rickety bridge. I thought at first that he might have been too timid to come, but he told me that he had merely been making certain he was not followed.

When he threw back his hood uncovering his white hair, I saw he bore a close resemblance to his sister, though care lines were etched deeply into his brown face. He said nothing, simply waiting for an explanation.

"My name is Lara, but my story is too complex to relate in a few words. Suffice it to say that a Rift ship lies less than a haad from here and we are all anxious to talk to you."

"A – a Rift ship?" he stuttered in disbelief.

I nodded and smiled. "Come with me and see . . ."

Still in doubt, he nonetheless trailed after me. When we reached the ship he stopped short in shock, and then slowly followed me inside. He was so overwhelmed by his welcome that he broke down, weeping with relief.

Events moved swiftly after that. Ramor, the beggar, surreptitiously contacted every Barsoomian in the valley, inviting them to leave with us, and specifying the location of the ship. He gave them a predetermined deadline for departure on the third night hence. Even that short span of time, Carthan commented, might be too long in case one of them reported our presence.

We need not have worried. The valley folk were still immersed in their own troubles following the Viking raid. For the Irish migrants, anything was preferable to the conditions in which they now lived. Though nominally slaves, fortunately none of them was confined – where, after all, could they go? It was a simple matter for them to walk away in the middle of the night.

It was they who suggested we should take seeds with us, and four of the men ghosted off into the darkness on the night of our departure. All returned within the hour, two of them burdened with sacks of grain and sundry vegetable seeds and tubers; the third with two goats under his arms, and the fourth towing a crude utility wagon with an attached cage containing a pregnant sow!

Through most of that third night they drifted in one by one, many still disbelieving until they actually set foot in the ship. Ryanna was one of the last to arrive. When she spotted me in the welcoming crowd she approached with a smile, holding out a familiar object in one hand.

It was the lyre.

A vote was taken and despite the horror stories told by the earlier migrants, most of our group still chose to stay on Earth, along with some of those we had rescued. The remainder would return to Barsoom with the ship.

But where to go? I wondered on our last evening in Ireland. Where on the planet could we find a secluded place, free of indigines, where the settlers could be safe until they had sufficient numbers to defend themselves and build a strong settlement of their own?

Tuning the lyre in our quarters on the ship, my mind wandered the world.

No such place existed in Europe or Asia, which had been settled for long ages. Australia, perhaps? – a huge empty land, but where the aboriginal peoples were so different from our own that it could be centuries before there might be a meeting of minds. It would be a thousand years before the British sent their convicts.

Africa? Impossible. South America? Perhaps feasible, but I was unfamiliar with the details of its history. I had no idea where we could live safely on that continent without drawing the attention of the warlike Inca and other native people.

North America? Thinly populated, but again with primitive tribes of uncertain temper. The far northern latitudes might be tolerable for the cold-accustomed Barsoomians, but life would be hard and unforgiving.

As I idly plucked the strings of the lyre, that strange feeling of familiarity returned – and abruptly I remembered. Awestruck, I laid the instrument aside reverently and headed for the common room with the answer.

The British Columbia valley where I had lived for so many years as a teacher was as remote and secluded as one could wish. It contained abundant water, timber and fertile soil, and a climate suitable for growing. Summers could be hot, winters bearable, autumn and spring exquisite.

When I described my suggestion, even the Irish settlers who had decided to leave began to change their minds.

As sunrise approached, there was no longer any reason to stay. We lifted off vertically through the trees and then aimed our ship toward the open ocean.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

A few hours later we had crossed the Atlantic and were well into what would someday be Canada, when the the ship began to shudder. Carthan, who knew almost as much about the ship's operation as its crew, reared to his feet muttering, "atmosphere engine," and picked his way hastily through the people, animals and jumbled supplies littering the common room to the control room door. I did not follow, having no technological aptitude. Some time later he reappeared at the door, his face drawn with worry, beckoning me me to join him.

All three shifts of the engineering and piloting crew were in the control room, clearly waiting for me, all clearly worried. Carthan led me to the outsized oval computer screen which displayed a partial map of North America. A black line indicated our route; a moving red dot over Hudson Bay showed our present position.

"The radium engine is failing," Carthan said to me. "We believe the cause is a combination of our overloaded ship and diminishing capacity of the engine to cope with the gravity. We have asked far more of it than it was capable of giving, and we have lost nearly all our fuel."

"Is it possible to replenish it?" Knowing the answer, I feigned a composure I did not feel

"No," Carthan answered unequivocally, and my heart sank.

The ship had two engines: a nuclear engine for space, and the "radium" engine for atmospheric flight. Both operated in tandem to achieve escape velocity. Once in space, the radium engine was shut down.

"Then the ship cannot return to Barsoom," I said.

He shook his head, his expression unreadable, though he was undoubtedly thinking that he might never see his beloved planet again.

"How long before we are forced to land?" I asked.

One of the engineers replied, "I think we could continue for several days with much reduced speed at low altitude."

My mind raced ahead. "And when we reach the mountains?"

He shook his head. "Anything higher than 300 ads and we would rapidly lose what is left of our fuel."

Three hundred ads – about 2700 feet. That was below the altitude of Alberta's foothills, and the pass we needed was over 4500.

"If we can reach the foothills of the mountains, we could walk from there," I mused, while taking a rough measurement on the map. The result stunned me.

Three hundred miles on foot through howling wilderness with 80 inexperienced men, women and children, several goats, brainless chickens, and a pregnant pig! I refused even to contemplate any further horrors.

"Issus!" I whispered, and then sniffed wryly, glancing at Carthan. "The old ulsio's not going to help much, is she!"

The crew glanced at each other, perhaps thinking I was going mad. As the only person present who understood my reference to Barsoom's long-deceased false goddess, Carthan chuckled, "No, she isn't."

They all stood in silence watching me, clearly awaiting a decision. We had no actual captain since Carthan and I were joint expedition leaders, but I was the only person on board with any real knowledge of my planet. At that moment I felt completely out of my depth, knowing that the fate of eighty people hinged on my decision.

I took a deep breath. "We have no choice but to continue. If we remain here in these northern latitudes, we would have neither the experience nor sufficient resources to survive the winter. We must go farther south and, if possible, endeavour to reach our destination." I looked at the engineer who had spoken. "Are you willing to try?"

"Of course," he said. "We will take the ship as far as she is able to go."

We were about fifteen hundred miles from the mountains – a flight that should have been accomplished in two or three hours. It took two days. The land rises incrementally from sea level at Hudson Bay to the highlands at the foot of the Rockies. As we crossed over Saskatchwan and into southern Alberta, we were nearly skimming the ground, the engine labouring to keep us airborne.

Occasionally we passed over aboriginal villages. When the inhabitants became aware of the incomprehensible object overhead, they invariably reacted with stark terror, dashing for their tepees or, if they were in the open, simply crouching with their arms over their heads. I have often wondered if our mysterious appearance might have contributed to some of their supernatural beliefs.

Several times we skimmed over miles-long herds of bison. Sometimes they would take exception to the strange object above them and charge off in panic. I will never forget the sight of tens of thousands of stampeding animals, like a vast living thing, trampling mile-wide devastation across the grasslands.

I spent hours in the control room bending over the map with my finger on our route, as if willing the ship to take us ever farther.

As we neared my intended destination in the foothills, I stood glued to the windows, searching the shapes of the mountains for the familiar configuration I had seen repeatedly from automobile trips to Alberta. As the Rockies slid away to the north, I was beginning to think I had missed it. . . but no – there it was: the pass, perhaps a hundred miles away.

As if triggered by my joy at the sighting, the radium engine began to falter.

We were still over flat prairie. However, a sizable and distinctive river which I thought might be the Oldman, flowing in great curves below us, had cut deep tree-filled coulees in the landscape. The pilot, sensing the end and knowing the ship needed cover, was able to find a dry gravel bar with space enough on which to land inside the coulee. With the last remaining engine power he eased the ship into concealment within a dense grove of mixed cottonwoods and willows.

While I did not know exactly where we were, the snowy Rockies stood sharply delineated on the western horizon. It would be a long walk, but at least we weren't lost.

. . . . .

When Carthan and I had tried to plan for every contingency for this expedition back in the Rift, not once had it occurred to us that our people would have to walk any great distance, and certainly not 400 miles! Now with that prospect a reality, we were faced with having to carry all our supplies – food, shelter, clothing, and irreplaceable equipment – on our backs. Compounding the problem was the gravity. While the Irish group would have no problem, it had been only two weeks since our ship had landed – too little time for the rest of us to acclimatize. Adding heavy packs to already overburdened bodies seemed too much to ask.

But what choice did we have? To judge by the types of spring flowers that were in bloom, I judged it was early April. The trek could take as long as two months. If we arrived in the valley any later than mid-June we would be too late to cultivate soil and plant crops in time for ripening before the September frosts. Our only recourse was to leave as soon as possible, strengthening ourselves as we went along.

Knowing there was nothing more we could do to conceal the ship from wandering natives, Carthan set the locater beacon, leaving a message about our intended destination. He sealed the hatch, and we walked away. Even if someone found the ship, there was no possible way it could be entered or damaged by stone-age tools,

Stripping the ship of anything useful, we distributed everything as equitably as possible. The hold contained sturdy sacks in varying sizes, intended for a multitude of agricultural uses. As travel packs with improvised shoulder straps, each could carry up to 80 pounds. Nearly half the weight of our packs comprised highly nutritious blocks of concentrated food from the ship's stores and were sufficient for weeks of travel.

With nothing left to do but go, I strove for balance under my own pack, and looked at Carthan after he hefted his oversized load onto his back. Shaking my head in sympathy, I said. "Another calot, my love?"

He gave me a crooked grin. "What matters another calot or two? This one is light by comparison."

Our settlers consisted almost evenly of men and women, with a few children. Nearly all were married couples or family groups. The exceptions were the crew, who had families back in the Rift and planned to return to Barsoom with the ship. At first they were adamant that they remain with the ship, but we persuaded them that there was no way to know if they would ever be rescued. They agreed reluctantly to go with us. After the first exhausting day of packing their burdens, I wondered if they would have second thoughts, but in the end they came all the way.

Trudging along at the speed of the slowest among us, we managed only a mile on that first day. But the human body is a wondrous thing. We daily grew stronger and within a week even the frailest of the children was managing several hours of hiking each day. The land was easily travelled, being flat and sparsely vegetated, and we soon discovered a well-worn native trail which followed the river. The trail saved us miles as it cut across loops that we might otherwise have followed.

Though at first we received the impression that we were alone in that vast wilderness, we soon learned that the prairie was far from empty. The well-used trail we followed was itself a certain indication of the presence of humans. Though we had not yet sighted anyone, that didn't mean they hadn't seen us.

Migratory waterfowl, honking and quacking, filled the spring sky in their millions, sometimes blocking out the sun with their flashing wings. Hunting hawks floated in great circles over the flatlands, meadowlarks courted ecstatically, and prairie dogs rose to their full height in astonishment as we approached.

Eight days out from the ship, it was our turn to flee. Only one thing saved us that day – the fact that we happened to be walking within yards of the river bank.

One of the children heard it first – a distant thunder which grew in volume as the minutes passed. At her puzzled comment, those of us nearest had stopped to listen. I glanced around the cloudless horizon; there was no sign of one of the sudden prairie thunderstorms. Then one of the men pointed at a dust cloud in the east behind us. I recognized the threat instantly. Being among those in the lead, I spun about and ran back along the long line of hikers behind me, shouting at them in panic and pointing at the river, "Everyone – into the coulee!"


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Some of the settlers slowed from their hypnotic step-after-step reverie – others simply stared at me in bewilderment as they continued to plod onward. I stopped short in puzzlement. _Why were they not reacting?_

Then I realized I had cried out in English. In Barsoomian I yelled, "Danger! Go go go go go!" while I tried forcibily to aim some of them toward the steep bank of the coulee.

Carthan ran up to me. "Lara? What is it?"

"Bison!" I cried, pointing at the dust cloud. "Coming straight toward us!"

Recognizing my English word, he peered toward the east where a distant black line was rapidly growing larger. Several nearby migrants also stopped to look and then the word spread. Within minutes all of us, in growing horror, were able to distinguish individual animals in the herd that was blindly stampeding toward us.

Pandemonium ensued, and I will never understand why no one was killed that day. Some dropped their packs in a panic and stopped to retrieve them. Others, thus impeded, grabbed the offender and either pushed or dragged him or her toward the coulee. Along with several others, Carthan and I assisted those who were carrying or herding our farm animals. Four of the Irish settlers picked up the sow's wagon and carried her to safety.

The bison herd's leaders were a hundred yards away when the last of us threw ourselves into the coulee.

We lay cringing on the sloping bank as the great beasts thundered past just yards from our heads. The pounding roar of their hooves, the clouds of choking dust, and the quaking earth under our bodies filled our senses and seemed to last for hours, though it was probably no more than ten minutes. Then, dazed, shaken, half-blinded and spitting dust, we slid and stumbled our way down the steep slope toward the riverbed, too unnerved and disorganized to continue our trek. We set up our tents, washed the dust from bodies and clothing, and rested for the remainder of the day recovering our wits.

As the sun set, I wondered what had startled the bison and climbed to the top of the bank with Carthan and several of the men to look around. The dust from the animals' passing had dissipated, but there was still an unsettling haze in the eastern sky. We retrieved what was left of the half dozen abandoned packs, sorting through their contents for anything usable. Solid items, such as pots and implements, had been smashed flat. Most of the soft goods, such as clothing and food, had been pounded to a pulp. Anything usable filled only one pack.

The incident did, however, leave us a gift. Not far from the packs we found a dead bison – a young one, still warm. His head had been trampled, but the remainder of the carcass was salvagable. We'd have fresh meat – the first since we'd begun our trek. Some of the men set to with knives to carve steaks for dinner.

By the time we finished our tasks it was growing dark. Taking a last glance eastward, I spotted a faint red glow low on the horizon. I grasped Carthan's arm. "Look! That's what stampeded the bison. It's a prairie fire!"

"How far?" he asked.

I shook my head in doubt. "Perhaps 50 haads (20 miles), perhaps less. Wildfires can move rapidly with a wind behind them."

"Are we in danger?" I heard the concern in his voice.

Whenever I had visited this part of Alberta the wind had seemed incessant – to the point, in fact, of aggravation. So far on our trek, winds had been moderate and quite bearable. The air on this day, however, was uncharacteristically still and while there did not appear to be any immediate threat, the lack of even a breeze seemed somehow ominous.

"I honestly don't know," I admitted. "There is no wind now, but the weather on the plains is volatile. We could have a downpour within the hour that would douse the fire. Or a wind could rise out of nowhere driving the fire toward us. Or away from us." I spread my hands in frustration. "It could _snow_ tonight!"

Carthan grasped my hands, burying them between his own, and laughed. "I can see that this weather of yours can be a problem. Our only choice, then, is to wait and see – and", he added suggestively, "find something interesting to pass the time . . ."

. . . . .

"Lara!"

The urgent voice of one of our male migrants outside our tent woke me abruptly next morning.

"What is it?" I called.

"There are . . . men here. They resemble Carthan."

Since Carthan was the only one among us with black hair and red skin, there was little doubt about the identity of our visitors even before I saw them.

"Do they seem threatening?" I called, while Carthan and I dressed hastily.

"No. They are simply standing there, watching us."

Drawing the tent flap aside, we stepped out into a brilliantly sunny morning. Many of our migrants were already up and about, watching the natives from a respectful distance.

The air was still calm and smoke-free, with no sign of the distant fire. Carthan and I exchanged grins when we noticed it had not snowed overnight either.

It may have been our mirth that drew our visitors' attention. Perhaps it was Carthan's extraordinary height. Or perhaps it was my fair skin and untended red hair falling wild about my shoulders. In any case, their eyes riveted upon us, and four of the five men retreated a step or two, whether in alarm or in superstitious awe I knew not. The fifth man, to his credit, stood his ground.

"Carthan," I said, turning to face him. "You must greet them. This is a patriarchal society – it would be inappropriate for me to approach them."

"But the language . . ."

" . . . is as unknown to me as to you."

"What message shall I attempt to convey, then?" he asked.

"If possible, try to make them understand that we are merely passing through to the mountains. They may feel less threatened by our presence if they know that."

He nodded and, with empty hands spread before him, strolled forward as unthreateningly as it was possible for such a commanding figure to be.

The fifth man, who I presumed was the leader, watched Carthan warily. He was dressed in tailored finely-tanned hide trousers and shirt, with part of a bison pelt draped over one shoulder. He was armed to the eyeballs with bow and arrows, a sling, a formidable stone-tipped spear, a stone knife, and what I took to be a tomahawk dangling from a thong around his waist. Thus armed, it wouldn't have surprised me if the five of them could easily have brought down a bison or two.

Standing nearly as tall as I, all five hunters looked well-fed, clean and tidy, their hair hanging down their backs in neat braids, some decorated with feathers. There was no way of knowing their tribe. I noticed that their moccasins were black, but it did not necessarily follow that they were Blackfoot. On the other hand they could well have been the predecessors of the people who would inhabit these plains in the next millennium, and for the purposes of this narrative I will call them Blackfoot.

In this year 800 A.D. the native peoples of North America had had no contact with any other Earth races or cultures. I tried to put myself into their position. What did they think of us? It took courage for those five men to face eighty utter strangers who looked different, dressed oddly, and could not speak their language – or any other language with which they might have been familiar.

Though ignorant of the rest of the world, they were by no means unintelligent. Carthan's efforts to communicate by pointing and arm-waving were commendably successful. The five men nodded and smiled when they understood we were transitory, and actually relaxed enough to wander through our camp, staring in curiosity at our cooking methods, and fingering objects such as pots and utensils. For a stone-age man, whose weapons and implements had reached the pinnacle of his technology, a metal knife blade with a permanently sharp edge would be a marvel.

When Carthan and some of the other migrants suggested we offer them knives as gifts, I shook my head, pointing out that our passage through this land must leave as little impact on their civilization as possible.

The five Blackfoot watched in fascination as we broke camp and packed with impressive efficiency – a skill hard-won over the last nine days.

They joined us on our trek that day, which was the longest so far. About ten miles from our "stampede" camp, the river took a bend to the south. I was concerned that I might have been mistaken about its source in the Rockies and that it might turn out to be a tributary flowing north from Montana. However, as I stood on the bank overlooking the convoluted formations within the coulee, the view was abruptly superimposed by the memory of a park that I had visited on this very spot in the 1960s. I was certain now that we were only a few miles from Lethbridge, which stood on a great bend of the Oldman River.

As we approached the future site of the city an hour later, a sizable Blackfoot settlement came into view.

Camping near the village that night, we were frequently visited by inquisitive natives drawn by the peculiar appearance of our tents. While planning our venture in the Rift, Carthan and I had arranged for the manufacture of beehive-shaped tents which we hoped would resemble Irish huts sufficiently to pass inspection at a distance until real ones could be built. The tents, made from a featherweight and nearly indestructible synthetic, had built-in heating units and were strong enough to withstand a hurricane – ideal in our present unexpected circumstances.

The Blackfoot – many of them women and children - strolled past our tents and campfires with curious looks and shy smiles. I found the whole experience nerve-wracking as I began to recall a horror story about Blackfoot warriors killing 300 desperate and starving Cree in a battle that had taken place within a mile of where we were camped. Further, having taken note of our wealth, they must surely be tempted to filch our belongings.

We needed everything we carried and had very little to offer as gifts. To the five hunters who had accompanied us we offered the remains of the bison we had found, hoping it would be sufficient to ward off larcenous thoughts..

We left next day, making steady progress up the river. The villagers, who appeared prosperous, were apparently uninterested in burglary that night – or the next. On the third night, we camped as usual within the confines of the coulee, where its steep sides and dense grove of cottonwoods offered what proved to be a false sense of security. I was beginning to relax, though a feeling of being watched had persisted since we'd left the Blackfoot village.

If I've learned anything in life, it's to pay attention to my instincts. I asked Carthan to double the watch.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Early the next morning twenty or thirty Blackfoot warriors staged a sneak raid, believing our men to be unarmed and vulnerable, and that the women in our camp would be helpless. At the first shouts of alarm from our watchmen, Carthan yanked on his breeches, snatched up his longsword and dagger, and whipped the tent flap aside. Bare-chested, he charged into the fray bellowing, "To arms!"

Inclined toward a more modest appearance, I dressed fully if hurriedly, thrust a pin through a knot in my hair, and unearthed from the depths of my pack the jewelled rapier I had found in the Rift.

No one was more surprised than the Blackfoot warriors when they found us prepared. They were soon hard pressed, not just by skilled men but by equally competent women, all bearing swords – weapons the natives had never seen before or even imagined existed.

Though I knew they would kill us as casually as they would a bison, to me it seemed imperative that none of _them_ should die that day. I ran through the battle ground, shouting, "Don't kill them, don't kill them! Disable only!"

The skirmish was short. Realizing they were outclassed, the Blackfoot disengaged abruptly at some unseen signal and melted into the trees. None of us was seriously injured, though one man had been speared through his shoulder, and well-aimed tomahawks had left several others with large painful bruises.

Though we knew we had injured several of the Blackfoot, only one had not managed to escape. He lay sprawled unconscious on his back on the grassy bank bleeding heavily from a sword thrust in his chest. Shallow breathing indicated he was still alive but unless we could do something for him quickly, it was clear he had only minutes to live.

Among our migrants were several medical practitioners with varying degrees of skill, some of whom converged on the patient at my urging. Fortunately the wound had missed vital organs. The bleeding wound was stanched, cleaned, stitched and bandaged, and the miraculous healing salve applied. We made him as comfortable as possible where he lay, erected one of our beehive tents over him with the heating unit on, and left him to sleep and heal. We decided that we would all remain camped there until he was well enough to return to his village. The delay also gave us a welcome respite from our daily exertions.

That evening was the first since leaving the ship that we had not retired early from sheer exhaustion. Most of us gathered around a huge fire, enjoying the warm spring evening. To keep our charges' minds off the raid, Carthan suggested I play my lyre. Since he, Ryanna, and one or two others were the only ones who had heard it, I had a whole new appreciative audience.

The following morning I took my turn watching the patient who was now showing signs of returning consciousness. I wet a towel in the river to refresh him and clean away the dried blood. When I wiped away the black warpaint from his face, I was startled to recognize him as the bold leader of the five men who had first encountered us. He opened his eyes at the first touch of cold water and I was stunned to see him smile at me in recognition, with no sign of fear or enmity.

Our patient's quick recovery was a source of bewilderment to him as he repeatedly peered at his rapidly healing wound, fingering it in amazement. On the third morning following the fight, we prepared to resume our trek. The Blackfoot man, however, refused to leave us even though he was well enough to walk, and indicated repeatedly that he wished to join us. I am uncertain if it was for reasons of honour, an unexpected opportunity for freedom, or simple curiosity. In any case, Carthan and I agreed to take him along. Frankly, I had been worrying about the route through the foothills up to the pass. A knowledgeable guide would be invaluable.

I was sitting beside the man that evening when he pointed at my chest, clearly asking my name.

"Lara," I replied. "Carthan," I added, pointing at my prince. The consonants and diphthongs were difficult for him, but no more so than his click-filled name was for us! When I failed to pronounce it after a third try, he drew a picture on the ground of two recognizable animals, one large and one small. He _barked_, and then indicated the smaller.

I grinned. "Little Dog?".

He nodded vigorously with a huge smile. "Yi'god. Yi'god."

He and the migrants all learned their first English words that day.

. . . . .

Over the next week we left the flatlands behind and began our climb through the foothills toward Crowsnest Pass. There was still snow on the mountains surrounding the pass itself, but the valley bottom was clear. When we passed the peculiarly-shaped mountain that gave the pass its name, I knew we had arrived in what would someday be British Columbia.

With Little Dog leading, we slogged through the long valleys between the pass and the Rocky Mountain Trench, often having to wade through creeks filled to the brim with milky-green snow-melt, or detouring around boggy meadows and swamps alive with birds and frog-song.

By the time we reached the future townsite of Cranbrook, we had been on the road for a month. Here, the country was criss-crossed with native trails, making passage easier through forested territory. In twelve hundred years many of these trails would be major highways

So far we had seen no aboriginals, but a few days later Little Dog reported he had spotted stealthy movement among the trees

We set a heavier watch that night and inevitably, I suppose, were awakened at first light by shouts and curses.

Carthan sprang to his feet, virtually naked, and raced off toward the commotion only to find that the thieves, faced with so many angry men, had fled into the woods. They had not left empty-handed. While our watchmen had apparently dozed off in the pre-dawn hush, the raiders had taken all our chickens and a goat. Husbanding animals for food was an idea which never developed among these hunter-gatherers who lived a marginal existence and risked potential catastrophe every winter.

An angry Carthan returned, threw on his clothes, and grabbed his sword and a spear he had made from a branch and a broken knife blade. With fifteen or twenty of our men, he charged off into the forest following Little Dog who was hot on the scent. They returned much subdued a few hours later, goat and chickens unharmed. Carthan squatted beside me where I had waited and worried around a fire with the rest of our people.

"They are starving," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "I've never seen such desperation. If _we_ had not not needed those animals, I would have butchered them on the spot myself."

Little Dog had tracked the culprits through the bush to a primitive camp just a few miles farther along our own trail.. The thieves, together with a few women and children – all hopeless and in deep distress – lay passively waiting for death, too weak to hunt or defend themselves. Horrified, our men had simply picked up our animals and left.

A grim-faced Carthan said, "We are going hunting, and hope to be back by dark. If we are not, do not worry." He kissed the top of my head, and entering our tent rummaged around for a few minutes before emerging with a half-full pack.

They returned to camp late the next day, triumphant and smug, carrying the butchered parts of two elk. They told us that Little Dog had discovered the spoor of a large herd and they managed to bring down four animals before the rest fled. I wondered briefly why the herd had not spooked from the start, but later in our journey, as I watched the natives stealthily hunting deer, I realized the animals did not understand they were in danger. Careful hunting had not yet instilled in them a fear of men.

The other two elk had been left with the starving natives.

Until now we had been eating ship's rations, but were nearing the point where we would have to live off the land. The elk hunt was a valuable experience for our men and thereafter Carthan arranged regular hunting and fishing expeditions to supplement our dwindling supplies.

The theft of our animals sharpened the wits of our watchmen, and though there were periodic attempts to rob us as we moved through their territory, unsuspecting natives soon learned our defences were impregnable. The native people seemed quite timid, but that could have been accounted for by our strange habits and superiority of numbers.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

A week later we arrived at a cross-road where I had to make a difficult decision. To continue westward toward our destination we would have to labour up, over, and down the other side of 6000 foot Kootenay Pass. At this time of year there was almost certainly deep snow at the summit but there was no way of knowing without sending scouts ahead. If we travelled as a group and found the way impassable, we would be forced to retrace our steps. Either way, we would waste many days of valuable travel time.

The alternative, though somewhat longer, was to go north along the eastern shore of Kootenay Lake. This route, however, ended at steep cliffs about sixty miles up the hundred-mile-long lake, at which point we would have to cross to the western bank, a matter of several miles. In my time, a ferry ran every few hours, but the only way I could think of to cross now was to build rafts. We had the tools, but did we have the time?

Although a few of our people, who had never seen snow, wanted to attempt the mountain route, I realized we were completely unprepared for severe winter conditions. Of the two choices, we decided in favour of the lake route which seemed to have a greater chance of success.

We discovered to my dismay that the well-trodden path I had envisaged was barely visible. It wound along the rocky windswept shoreline, all too frequently disappearing into the rising water at the base of cliff faces where, heavily loaded with our packs, we were forced to wade bare-legged through the chill, pebbly lake bottom. It took ten days to cover the sixty miles. Later I learned that the native peoples rarely took the shore route, preferring to cover the distance by canoe.

Weary and dejected by our delays, Carthan and I were in the lead as usual when we climbed a long hill that suddenly struck me as familiar. If I had been driving, I would have expected to see the ferry terminal from the summit. Instead, to our surprise, we discovered a small aboriginal campsite in the cove, with half a dozen birch bark canoes drawn up on the sandy beach.

Perhaps there might be a ferry service after all!

As it transpired, the inhabitants of the cove were temporary. Eight men, whose village was on the other side of the lake, had come to hunt grizzly. The bears, thin and weakened from their winter fast, were easier to kill in spring. Their luxurious winter pelts were the most valuable of an aborigine's possessions and it was every man's desire to possess one, even at the cost of serious injury.

Once the hunters recovered from their alarm at seeing our numbers and strange appearance, we were able to communicate our need to cross the lake. Though reluctant at first, they accepted with alacrity when Carthan offered to help them with their hunt.

"No!" I shouted when he told me what he'd done.

"Yes," he said, smiling, as he recalled our previous differences of opinion.

I was not amused. "You could be killed!"

"It can't be more dangerous than hunting banths."

"Oh, yes it can," I warned him. "You've never seen a grizzly."

"Have you seen a banth?" He retorted, one eyebrow quirked.

I shook my head, but remembered John Carter's description. Banths were the oversized Barsoomian equivalent of a lion with ten legs and multiple rows of needle-sharp teeth.

I said, "The grizzly is the most fearsome predator on this planet. You hunted banths with rifles from the backs of thoats. Now, you'll be on foot with a home-made spear!"

"And plenty of experience," he reminded me, with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"But not with grizzlies!" I gritted through my teeth, even as I admitted to myself that it was futile to argue. He was adamant. Kissing my tight-lipped mouth and hugging my unresponsive body, he informed me they would be gone for a few days. Accompanied by Little Dog and several of our men, he left with the native hunters within the hour.

For three days I castigated myself for not returning his kiss and allowing him to go without my blessing. By the third miserable night I had convinced myself I would never see him again. On the fourth day he strolled into our campsite as if he hadn't been away, completely unharmed. I wanted to strangle him. Instead I threw myself into his arms, weeping with relief.

By the time Carthan had calmed me with soothing caresses and loving words, the remaining hunters had reached the camp bearing three grizzly pelts. All the men had survived, though one of our group and two of the natives had been mauled. We treated the terrible gashes with our miraculous healing ointment. Next morning, when the injured natives discovered how quickly they had healed, all the hunters began to regard us with superstitious awe.

Carthan never discussed the hunt with me, and I didn't ask, not wishing to know the gruesome details. I noticed, however, that the hunters' attitude toward Carthan verged on hero worship, and learned much later that he had single-handedly killed one of the bears by leaping upon its back armed only with his dagger – a strangely familiar scenario! Judging by his sober reaction whenever he heard the word "grizzly", the experience had been an eye-opener for him.

. . . . .

The hunters were as good as their word. The day following their return, they beckoned to us to commence loading the canoes.

The six canoes drawn up on the beach were unlike any I had ever seen before. Meticulously made of pine frames and birch-bark skins, they averaged about 12 feet long and could hold six people, but were so light that a single man could carry one with ease. The peculiar shape of their bulbous keels, which protruded underwater beyond the body of the canoe at bow and stern, contributed (I later learned) to their remarkable stability in the turbulent rivers prevalent in this region. As an avid canoist myself, I keenly coveted one and made a close inspection of the construction hoping someday to build one of my own.

We loaded the first of our migrants soon after sunrise, two or three to a canoe, with the heavy packs taking the place of two people in each vessel. With four people paddling, the canoes fairly flew across the lake, and were returned by their lone native occupants by noon. The second group was delivered equally efficiently, but it was nearly dark before the paddlers returned again. Carthan and I, with the remaining migrants, camped in the cove, and took time to inspect the beautiful decorated elk-hide tepees of our hosts.

Over the next two days the rest of us were delivered with practiced efficiency to our waiting comrades in the village across the lake.

We were invited by our grateful hosts, who called themselves _Ktunaxa, _to attend a noon-day celebration of the successful hunt. Carthan and the Rift men who had helped bag the grizzlies were made members of the tribe. We feasted on fish, venison, various roots, and a type of berry which was whipped into a delicious frothy treat for dessert. Following the meal, the men joined in a circle around a huge fire where they sang and danced their gratitude to their sun goddess.

. . . . .

Perhaps three-quarters of our remaining route was easily negotiated, the trails being level and well-travelled. We frequently encountered other Ktunaxa bands, and word had spread that our party was, if not harmless, at least benign. When Carthan, Little Dog and some of our men offered to assist in their hunts, they were welcomed with enthusiastic nods and grins. To my relief, they did not again hunt grizzlies!

The villages petered out as we made our way farther up river. As the miles passed, the trails dwindled to nothing when the land began to rise in elevation and we entered the rain forest. June is one of the wettest months of the year there and it rained almost daily. We were hard pressed to keep ourselves and our gear dry.

The route I had chosen became far more difficult, with rising water making river crossings dangerous. Cedars and hemlocks grew to enormous proportions and the thick undergrowth became nearly impenetrable.

To northeast and northwest familiar (to me) glimpses of snow-topped peaks began to tantalize our view. Knowing what was coming, I pressed on more quickly. Even Carthan protested my eagerness, but I grinned at him, daring him to keep up.

And then we were there, at the top of the rise overlooking my valley.

As the settlers caught up, they murmured in amazement and then fell silent taking it all in.

"It looks as if a moon rolled through it," one of the children murmured in wonder.

I laughed with delight at the simile. The 60-mile-long U-shaped valley with its lovely lake nestled in the mountains, did indeed look as though it had been shaped by a small moon. Barriered on east and west by ten thousand foot peaks and glaciers, and by nearly impenetrable rain forest to north and south, we would be isolated, protected, and as safe it it was possible to be Eighth Century Earth.

We named it Moon Valley.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

With little time left for planting, our colonists set to work with a will, wasting no time making the valley their home. We found a wildfire-scoured clearing which I knew to be fertile at the southern end of the lake. More than a thousand years hence it would be the site of the village where I taught school. Fuel and wood for housing were easy to obtain in the old burn, and the ash-enriched soil together with frequent rains had gardens sprouting within a few days of planting.

Carthan and I worked as hard as everyone else, building our home beside the lake. Wood is a rare building material on Mars, and in my long life on Earth I had sometimes assisted in building cabins and houses. I was frequently called upon for advice and that was as busy a summer as I have ever known.

I also introduced the earthly week. The settlers soon discovered that their ten day week was too demanding in Earth's gravity, and embraced a six-day work week (the seventh day off), with enthusiasm.

Carthan and I spent our "Sundays" exploring the valley. We built a canoe, calling upon my memory of the Ktunaxa vessels, and on the day we launched it I showed him where my cottage had stood, several miles up the lake. We sat on the grassy bank above the shore, where I had once dreamed for hours at a time, wondering what would become of me as the years and, perhaps, centuries passed. With Carthan beside me, I knew that whether or not we returned to Barsoom, life would be complete only with him.

Winter came and we were prepared as well as possible. Our crops had been abundant, the goats, chickens and pig had multiplied. We had built several more canoes to aid our hunters and fishermen in accessing the lake and surrounding territory, and had preserved (we hoped) enough fish and meat to last through the deepest winter.

And "deep" it was! The first snowfall came almost to our windowsills. The youth among us learned the joys of playing in snow, and the rest of us joined them, making rough sleds and skis to slide down the hillsides, rejoicing in an element the Martians could never have imagined.

In the depths of that first winter I gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl conceived on an Irish beach, to whom we gave old Irish names, Tarin and Cara.

The birthing procedure both appalled and delighted my husband and the women who assisted me. As a nurse in a former life, I found the experience entirely normal – if exhausting – and wonderfully fulfilling. The women, being oviparous, had never experienced the joy – or work! – of caring for an infant and I found myself overwhelmed with volunteer nannies. When they realized how reluctant I was to share my offspring, they turned their attention to my household and garden chores, using them as an excuse to peek in at the tiny, adorable human beings.

. . . . .

The seasons changed, the years passed, and one day we woke to find two ships hovering above our village. The Rift people had built and sent another ship filled with more brave migrants. Homing in on our ship's beacon, they had found our grounded vessel on the prairie with our message and destination coordinates inside. Our ship had been refuelled and now both could return to Barsoom with a few homesick migrants aboard..

Carthan and I, with our children, decided to join them, satisfied that our settlers would thrive on their own.

We took the canoe out on the lake on our last day in the valley. I showed my six-year-old twins where I had lived (would be living) 1200 years in the future. We picnicked on the shore where my cottage had stood, and the children played in the water. Both were water babies, but Carthan, still a non-swimmer, always watched them with trepidation.

I fetched my lyre from the canoe and asked Carthan for his knife. Though it felt as if I were cutting my own flesh, I carved my initials deep into the old worn oak.

Then I asked him to do the same.

"Why?" he asked, clearly shocked that I would deface such a precious possession.

"Because," I said, "in 1200 years I am going to find it – right here. It was so badly decayed that I did not recognize it for what it was. I puzzled over it for days wondering how a piece of ancient oak had reached this valley where none grows. There was enough left of the wood to reveal my initials which appeared to have been carved by my own hand. Your cryptic symbols, of course, meant nothing to me at the time and deepened the mystery.

"When I first picked up the lyre in Ireland it seemed familiar, but I didn't recall the connection until the night we had to decide on a destination."

A look of amazement grew on his face. "Then that is how you knew where to bring us! Because we had . . ." He stopped, blinking in confusion.

"Because we had already been here", I said bemused, my brain spinning with the convolutions of time.

I left the lyre under a huge cottonwood, covering it tenderly, regretfully, with leaves. Time would bury it, until one day another Lara would dig it up while planting geraniums.

Seven months later, with our children in tow, we stepped through the portal in the Rift valley where old Thiessa and our beloved Belle and Paddy welcomed us home.

(Part IV coming up!)


End file.
